Noble's Way (10 page)

A week later, two men arrived driving a wagon and two jaded draft horses.

“We'll trade you the wagon and horses for two saddles and fresh horse,” the sharp nosed younger man offered.

Noble walked around the rig examining it. The wagon was a well-kept farm vehicle, hardly the property of the two scruffy looking men.

“Mister—T' Noble asked, recalling the men had not offered their names.

“Thomas,” the sharper nosed man said reluctantly. “William Thomas.”

“I'll have to send for the horses; they're out grazing.” Noble studied the gaunt sorrel team. They were well-bred Belgian mares.

Sudan beckoned Noble over to the side. “You going to trade for them?”

“I guess,” Noble said, keeping a cautious eye on the two men.

“Those mares would sure have powerful mule colts,” Sudan informed him. “Yes, sir, mated to a big jack, they'd have mules that could pull two wagons at once.”

“Sudan, find two old saddles. Then have Spotted Horse bring in two Indian ponies. This pair ain't telling the truth. I figure they stole this outfit. They've nearly run the mares to death getting here. As much as I hate to trade for stolen goods, I'd hate to see those good draft horses ruined.”

“Those two sure bear watching,” Sudan agreed.

Noble crossed back to the pair. “I'll trade with you. The horses will be here in a little while.”

Thomas nodded. His partner seemed nervous and edgy. “How long?”

“About an hour,” Noble said.

“You sell whiskey?”

“No, we don't sell it here.”

When Spotted Horse brought in the two ponies, if Thomas and his companion were not pleased, they gave no indication. They saddled up, each took a sack of things from the wagon and left at a stiff trot. Noble was relieved to see them go. Even the Osages armed themselves and sat nearby to keep an eye on them.

Sudan's eyes held an eagerness as he strode over to unhitch the mares. Noble helped him undo the harness, smiling at the black man's soothing words that he spoke to the team.

Fleta and the Osage women waited to see what else was in the wagon. Noble climbed over the front wheel and Spotted Horse came in over the back tailgate under the canvas hoop.

Noble spotted the woman's underclothing. When he picked them he noticed they were torn and bloodstained. Quickly he rolled them up and hid them. A few other signs suggested a violent struggle took place in the wagon. He was sickened when he realized what must have happened to the owners of the rig. His jaw tightened with anger.

When Noble emerged from the wagon, Fleta immediately noticed his troubled expression. “What's wrong, Noble?”

“Spotted Horse and I will unload the wagon,” he said curtly.

His tone told her enough. She herded the Osage women and children back inside the store. She knew Noble would tell her later what he found in the wagon. In the distance, she heard Luke shout at Noble. “Is there someone dead in there?”

“No, Luke, but you better go to the house.”

“Thank God,” Fleta murmured softly. But she had a sick feeling when she recalled the look on Noble's face.

On their way back from Independence, Toby Evans and a few of his cowboys stopped at Noble's Fort. Evans produced a pocket worn letter from Cedric Patterson for Noble. The missive was urgent, but since the drover had carried it across Nebraska and Kansas, the envelope was creased, dirty, and unfortunately, over sixty days old.

The message from the Patterson's urged Noble to return to Independence and see a certain lawyer. The possibility of purchasing the land around the fort looked very promising and he needed to accept or reject the offer.

Noble became concerned he might be too late to buy the property since so much time had elapsed.

“The Wichita's won't get drunk this time,” he assured Fleta as he prepared to leave for Missouri. “I have Chief Tall Timber's word. Sudan can handle anything that Barge and River can't. I told Spotted Horse that I would take him with me. We'll ride hard and won't be gone more than a week.”

Fleta reluctantly agreed. The land title needed to be settled; she had no wish to be ousted from her new house, especially since things were going so well. Sudan had promised to add on a couple of rooms to the back of the store. He was going down in the Indian Territory with the oxen to bring back enough logs to make a real house behind the store. Fleta looked forward to sleeping away from the smelly dry goods.

Noble noticed Spotted Horse chose a pair of waist overalls from the store. For the trip, Mannah hand sewed him a red shirt and a new fringed buckskin coat adorned with bead work. Noble was secretly amused at the Indian's actions. Obviously Spotted Horse had no intentions of allowing the people of Independence to think he was some poor, blanket-ass Indian.

The Osage's saddle had a blanket cover, and the Colt rifle stuck out of a saddle boot. All this was mounted on a leggy Kentucky horse that Noble traded for. He had to admit the Indian looked prosperous. Even the eagle feathers in his braids fluttered with newness.

Fleta had written three letters for Noble to post. She found addresses in the wagon Noble suspected as stolen. The wagon owners' name was Thomas. Surmising that the letters in the wagon to be from relatives, Noble urged Fleta to write, telling them about the fate of their kin. At Noble's insistence, she wrote that they had found the wagon empty and suspected foul play. It was a bleak Christian duty Fleta performed and she was profoundly relieved when she finished the missives.

“Don't fidget so much, Noble,” she said as she cut his shoulder-length sandy hair. “I swear you act like you're nervous. But you'd look like some sort of ruffian going to Independence without a hair cut.”

“You're right, but that doesn't mean I enjoy getting one,” he retorted with a mocking smile.

“Sit still.” Fleta shook her head. Noble could certainly get worked up and impatient when he had something to do.

“Fleta,” Noble's voice was grim, “I sure hate leaving you alone, but I don't have much choice. This land thing has to be settled.”

“Noble, hold still or you're going to have a big bald spot,” she scolded, inwardly hiding her sadness at the thought of him being away so long. “You've spent all day telling me how safe we are. Now you're worried. Well, I'm not, so just sit still,” she finished with more confidence than she felt.

“Yes, ma'am.”

The ride on horseback only required three days. The weather was dreary, chilly, and uneventful. Noble was sore from sleeping on the ground and grimaced at his stiff joints when he dismounted in Independence.

Patterson's Store looked familiar and welcome. Noble unbuttoned his long canvas coat and stood watching Spotted Horse's face. Despite its blandness, he knew the Osage carefully observed the facets of civilization.

Spotted Horse dismounted and looked around. “This is where the squaw peed?” he asked with a grin.

Noble smiled dryly. “I believe there were more wagons in the street then. The pack horses were lined up to that corner.” He gestured with his thumb. Spotted Horse shook his head with amused laughter, then followed Noble into the store.

“Mr. McCurtain!” Alex called warmly. “We wondered if you were having problems. We've been expecting you for some time.”

“No,” Noble said, shaking the man's hand. “No problem. The letter was late getting to me. We rode here as fast as we could after receiving it.”

“Alex, I'd like you to meet Chief Spotted Horse.”

The store keeper inclined his head slightly in greeting. “Nice to meet you, Chief.” Spotted Horse nodded his acknowledgement.

Alex ushered them to the office in the rear of the store.

“Am I too late to make an offer on the property?” Noble asked anxiously.

“No.” Alex shook his head then cleared his throat. “Father,” he addressed Cedric who was sitting at his desk engrossed in looking at invoices. “This is Chief Spotted Horse, a friend of Noble's.”

The elder man stood up and removed his reading glasses, He smiled broadly. “Glad to meet you Chief. Nice to see you again, Noble.”

“Good store here,” the Osage said in a voice of authority that Noble couldn't recall him using before. My Lord, Noble mused, give him a title and he's a regular ambassador.

“Tell Noble about the land, Father,” Alex urged.

“Ab, yes. The Southern Kansas Railroad owns the property that your store is situated on. Congress awarded them that land. They will keep a right of way east and west, but they need the money badly.”

“How badly?”

“Well, they weren't certain just where your store is situated on their property, but you can buy six thousand acres for one-thousand dollars.” The elder Patterson waved his finger like a gun. “And you will have a federal guaranteed deed to your place. A fort isn't it?”

“Yes.” Noble wanted to shout for joy at the news. Instead he clenched his teeth and paced around the room viewing the floor. He could hardly believe it was true—clear title to the land.

“That is good news, isn't it?” Cedric asked, frowning at Noble's preoccupied look.

“Hell, yes,” Noble lifted his head and grinned. “It's the best damned news I've heard in my life. Let's go get it done.”

“Tomorrow,” the senior Patterson said. “The lawyer is up at the fort on army business. Nice man, Albert Wooten, someday he'll be governor.”

“I'll vote for him,” Noble said vehemently.

“Come on, look at the new Colts we just got in,” Alex invited.

“Yeah.” Noble motioned for the unimpressed Osage to follow them. “Toby Evans showed me his new model.”

“They're .44's with side ejection. They'll outshoot anything,” Alex explained as they went to the guncase. “The grips are larger. Samuel Colt did himself proud. I even have the short-barreled sheriff's model.” He handed a new and well-oiled weapon to Noble.

Noble spun the cylinder and tried the ejector. He balanced both models in his hand. “I like the longer barrel,” he decided. A smile spread across his face at the double holster set that Alex spread on the counter. Noble raised a brow when he noticed the holster even had loops for the rim fire ammunition.

Noble watched the Osage getting the feel of a lever action rifle. “Is that the Henry rifle?”

“No. A Winchester .44/40 and it's the rifle for the plains. That model has a cartridge that will reach out. No fizzling short shells. The lever action is improved. It has all steel working parts.”

Spotted Horse smiled privately at Noble when he handed him the oily-smelling weapon.

“Do they work good?” Noble asked.

“Sure do. We can hardly keep them in stock. They're very popular.”

'I'll need four for my people at the fort.” Noble looked questioningly at the Osage. The Indian nodded.

“No,” he said, turning back to Alex. “Make that five, just in case we have trouble.”

“Do you expect to have trouble?” Alex asked, alarmed.

“No,” Noble said, his mind for a moment on Izer Goodman. “But we have had some and could have more. We'll get those guns and ammunition tomorrow.”

“Noble?” Alex's brow was lined with worry. “You better leave your other pistols here. The marshal has a gun law on the streets.”

Noble shrugged. “You sure are getting civilized around here.”

“I know how you frontier people must feel, but we're trying to make this town safe and respectable.”

“Well, thanks for the warning.” Noble laid the pair of .36's from his waistband on the counter. He hitched up his pants, feeling almost undressed without the guns in his belt.

“The Reagan Hotel is a clean place to stay and the food's not bad. It's two blocks down the street.” Alex pointed to the left.

“Thanks. We'll go put our horses up.”

After stabling their mounts, the two men went to the hotel. The desk clerk eyed Spotted Horse dubiously.

“I must warn you there is no cooking in the room,” the haughty little man said, turning the book around to read Noble's signature. “Noble ... McCurtain and Spotted Horse.”

The man blinked and took a slight step backward. “Well, Mister McCurtain, we have had problems with aborigines building fires in their room,” he explained, wrinkling his nose in distaste.

“He's an Osage,” Noble stated curtly.

“Osage, whatever. He is still an aborigine.”

Noble looked at the man contemptuously. “Come on Chief, this man is obviously an idiot. He may even get scalped if he continues to call every tribe by that stupid name. We don't want to spoil our dinners by witnessing such a bloody sight, huh?” Noble gave the man a pitying look, satisfied by his pale complexion that the mention of scalping had had its effect. He turned and with the room key safely in his hands, moved toward the restaurant.

When the waiter came to their table, he gave them a skeptical look. Irritated by the lack of respect they were receiving, Noble looked the man squarely in the eye.

“This is a Chief. He's killed a hundred Cheyenne.”

The man's eyes widened with fear. His adam's apple bobbed up and down. “Y—yes sir.”

After the waiter went through a long list of meals like squab and others, Noble ordered the roast pork, deciding the fancy dressed people seated around them could eat that other stuff.

Spotted Horse sneezed when he sniffed the pepper. The action drew a dozen stares. Sometimes while he ate, the Indian used his knife rather than his fork. All in all, Noble was proud of him.

“They collect money after you eat,” Noble explained.

Spotted Horse shook his head. “What if you do not pay? Do they squeeze the food out of you?” The Chief leaned across the table. “Him believe I killed plenty Cheyenne?”

“I think so.” Noble was amused at the Indian's logic. Not much passed the chief. Ready to go to their room, Noble thought they had drawn enough impertinent stares for one day.